


The Queen of Galilee

by goodnightfern



Category: Supernatural
Genre: "Canon Compliant", Beach House, Established Relationship, M/M, Nephilim, Notice the Quotes, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-01 22:17:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10201964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnightfern/pseuds/goodnightfern
Summary: It takes a village to raise a child, but a cabin perched on some foggy coast isn't anything like a village, or the bunker, or any kind of home Dean knows.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i have the wonderful [interstitial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstitial/pseuds/interstitial) to thank for betaing this!
> 
> a few asides: Ferndale really is kind of off-putting. Ninkasi Brewing did not sell out to Budweiser, they refused the offer, I'm just being silly. I almost titled this story in Greek. That's all.

Wind sweeps sand across the planks leading up to the Cas’s house, bringing the sharp brine of the sea. Dean wonders when the last time he and Sam were on the coast like this, close enough to hear the waves crash. 

No sun, nothing but fog in the morning. No white sand, only rocky cliffs and moody cypress. Not quite the beach in Dean’s mind, the one where he’s sitting in a lawn chair with a cold beer, laughing kids playing in the surf and seagulls trying to steal his chips. 

“Dean,” Sam says, and Dean stops looking at the sea. 

The cabin is small and saltscraped, perched too close to the cliffs. On the front porch Castiel waits with the baby on his lap. There’s still flecks of white paint on his sweater. He’s touched up the sigils sometime recently, the smell of fresh paint palpable under the brine of the sea.

“That’s a funny looking banishing sigil,” Sam says. 

“It’s my own design,” Cas says. “See, a slight alteration in the frequencies - here, demonstrated by the names of the four winds - excludes anything corrupted, making it safe for -”

“Long time no see,” Dean says.

“Safe,” Cas continues, “for the nephilim. Otherwise, we could risk splitting its soul in half.” He smiles at Dean, faded and tired. Maybe it’s just the scruff he’s developed. “And it’s been a month.”

More than a month. Five weeks spent looking for Lucifer, random hunts along the way, all of it for pretty much nothing. While Cas sits here all alone with Kelly’s baby.

“Gotta piss,” Dean says, and shoves past Cas inside the cabin.

Cas has been decorating, at least. A trunk of driftwood sits in the middle of the main room, strange dragons curling out of the roots. There’s an assortment of shells on the table, the kitchen counters. A new rug sits in front of the pot-bellied stove. It’s funny to think of Cas buying a rug, but Dean doesn’t laugh. Instead he gnaws his lip and stares at the red woven patterns until he hears Sam or Cas at the doorknob before hurrying out the open back door to the outhouse, tucked against the cabin beside a camp shower stall that has long been dry. 

The toilet itself smells unnaturally good. No one’s been using that yet, at least.

So maybe nephilim don’t have to shit either, and Dean brought Cas diapers for nothing. They’re still in the trunk of the car, along with a few onesies and a little giraffe toy that makes a rattling sound when you shake it. 

The baby is shaped a little bit like a human, now. A hand is reaching out from the burning little ball of light to clutch at Castiel’s sweater. He’s balancing the baby on one hip, heating a kettle on the stove. 

Sam looks up at Dean from the single ratty couch in the cabin. Now the tree trunk makes sense - it makes a perfect footrest for Sam’s long-ass legs. Sam holds an empty mug out to him with a teabag already in it. Dean sits besides him, holding the mug with both hands while Cas pours hot water.

Cas asks how they’ve been and Sam gives pleasant answers. It’s all real pleasant. The baby coos beneath them. Now it has legs emerging, little feet kicking, and Cas sets the baby on the floor to toddle around.

“Walking already,” Sam says. “That’s super early, isn’t it?”

Two months ago, the baby was an odd spark to be sealed in a glass jar. Cas kept it on the passenger seat of his pickup truck for a while after Kelly left, then in the bunker. For about four weeks before he took off to this cabin. The bunker was public knowledge to the Men of Letters and Lucifer, after all. It was never going to be safe for the baby.

The beach cabin used to be some sort of angelic safe house, before. Maybe Cas killed those angels. Maybe it was given to him. Dean hasn’t really inquired into its exact origins. 

The baby bumps into Dean’s legs. He yelps, a sudden shock turning his belly to jelly. 

“I can ward you,” Castiel says. “Mine are designed to protect a vessel, but they ought to work fine for you.” And then Cas is taking off his shirt. The tattoos on his arms stand taut on his biceps. He’s kept his tan, somehow looking even better than Dean remembers. Less taut and worn-out. More solid. His tattoos are similar to the one’s he’s been sewing on the blankets. A half-finished wool is draped on the porch railing. It seems too thin, unraveling already. Certainly too scratchy for a baby. 

“You can just draw it for now,” Sam shrugs, pulling out the Sharpie he seems to just carry around in his ass everywhere, like a knife.

Sam and Dean take off their shirts and wait while Cas murmurs guttural Enochian, tracing a felt tip over their spines and across their arms. He takes a little extra time on Dean’s chest, looks up at him like everything's still fine between them. Cas smells like he’s been showering in the sea and rolling in dead fish for the past month. It’s good on him, though, good in the way the pine needles on the floor and sand blown in from the dunes is good. 

Cas finishes a line and then holds the pen for a moment, just feeling Dean under the tip. 

Fully warded, Sam picks up the baby and holds her like the Lion King. 

“I can feel it. But I can’t see it. Try it, Dean,” he says, and passes it over. 

The baby is warm and wriggling beneath his hands. Dean looks down at her and blinks against the light, strains to see something beneath the contained explosion of nuclear chaos in the sphere. But his hands disappear, and he feels something fleshy. Something human. 

“I can see it,” Cas says. He’s bending over Dean’s arms. “The form is emerging within. Once she has skin they may not be needed - but then again, I can’t be sure.” 

“You got tattoos,” Dean points out. “You know those last forever, right?”

“Forever on this body, maybe.” Cas says, and Dean feels like an ass for pointing it out. It’s not like Cas didn’t already get a tattoo, before. 

They look good on him, at least. Castiel - or his vessel - or Cas looks good in everything. 

 

 

The baby is glowing softly on a bed of dried sea grass, the only light in Cas’s room. Cas pulls off his sweater and hangs it on a doorknob, and Dean swallows. Cas fiddles with the drawstring on his pants and Dean nearly runs away. 

“Hey, Cas.” 

“You’re still awake.”

“Bout to go to bed.”

It’s too dark to see his face clearly, but Cas makes a small huff that could be amusement or frustration. The bed in his room is a broken California king mattress that Dean carried, bound in thick rope, on the roof of the Impala. The result of someone else’s illegal dumping. Cas lowers himself onto the bed, still in his linen pants, and looks up. 

“Then come to bed.”

As if it’s that easy to get into Castiel’s bed. 

Not like Dean is going to refuse the invitation. He sits next to Cas, scoots his butt back and lies down flat on top of the quilt. Cas makes a sound, tugging on the blanket. When Dean turns to him he just wraps a hand around Dean’s head, pulls him into an open-mouthed kiss like this is something they’ve done every day. Like they’re still in the bunker, back when this thing between them was new. 

Dean almost sobs into his mouth. He should pull back and go back to Sam. He should go wake up Sam and tell him they’re going, right now. Hop in the car and just drive and drive. But Cas kisses the corners of his eyes, brushes back his hair. 

“What’s wrong with you, Dean?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Cas says, and that’s all it takes to drive Dean fucking wild for him, words catching in his throat. 

“The baby,” Dean says. “We can’t - not with the baby in the room.”

Cas touches his stomach, hand drifting down. “Why not?”

“We’re gonna wake the baby.”

“Not if we’re quiet.”

“I don’t wanna traumatize it or nothing.”

“Can I kiss you, then?” Dean nods, and Cas noses under his jaw. Inhales deep, and then says, “I missed you.” 

“I miss you all the time,” Dean tells him then. “I worry about you. Anytime I can’t see you, I’m gonna be worrying, Cas. Especially now. Freaking Nephilim.” 

“I wish you would talk to me more. Like this.” Cas touches his lips with cold fingers. “I only get your truths in the dark.” 

Dean wraps around him, sighing. “You should’ve called or something.”

“You should’ve called me.”

“What, didn’t you get any of my prayers?”

Cas’s fingers tighten at Dean’s cheek. “No.”

“I hate this, Cas. I hate having to worry about you.”

“So, stay.”

Like it’s that easy. Like all Dean has to do is just stay. Dean closes his eyes and feels Cas on top of him, dares to put his arm across Castiel’s back.

 

 

It does odd things to Dean, seeing Cas prepare breakfast. The cupboards are nearly bare but he prepares drop biscuits for Sam and Dean; his own blood mixed with formula for the baby. The potbellied stove is still warm from the ashes of last night, and Dean hovers close. Cas should’ve gone further south. Somewhere less cold. 

Cas finishes heating the bottle and scoops the baby up off the floor. The formula is sticky and red in the bottle. Cas aims it somewhere in the burning sphere, and the bottle slowly drains. Fingers come up, glowing, and grab for the bottle. Grab for Cas. 

Dean’s ribs are too small for his body, but at least Sam is staring as fixedly as he is.

“Do you want to try feeding her?”

“Oh - “ Dean says. “I can’t - I wouldn’t even know - ”

“I’ll give it a shot,” Sam says, and Cas deposits the baby in his arms. “Whoa. I can’t find her face.“

“Here,” Cas says, and moves around Sam. Guides the bottle in his hands. “There you go. She’s got it, now.”

“So it’s a girl?”

“More or less.”

“Well, I’ve been sick of calling her an it,” Dean says. 

“How can you even tell?” Sam frowns, adjusting the baby. “What are angelic genders anyways?”

“Amara and Chuck,” Cas says. “In heaven, we echo the cosmic balance. But all nephilim exhibit negative energy, and thus, we can call them female. On Earth, at least.” 

“But she’s all glowy,” Dean says. “You’d think she’d be all black or something.”

“It’s a baby, not a black hole.” Cas smiles down at her, reaches into the light. Tiny fingers grab his index, and Dean’s arms need something to hold. 

“But she is gonna come out looking like a baby, right?” Sam asks. “We got her some things. I dunno if she’ll even be able to fit in them by the time she has a real body.”

“We got diapers,” Dean admits. “I don’t even know - if she eats, she’s gotta shit, right?”

“Not yet.” Cas reaches into the sphere, fingers disappearing into the glow. He could be pinching her cheek or stroking her hair. “Right now, she’s absorbing energy entirely. But diapers might be helpful, in the future. We have to be ready for anything.” 

The onesies are probably too small, but Cas holds them up curiously. They’re green with tigers, yellow with sheep, and then even one pink and one blue just to render the subject of baby colors irrelevant. Dean sets down their packages on the floor of the cabin and there doesn’t seem to be enough. Babies need cribs and diaper tables. Everything is too bright and cleanly packaged to fit in here, but Cas tears the tag off the giraffe toy to shake it at the baby, still held in Sam’s arms. 

A crackle of a gurgle replies, a hand reaching for the giraffe. 

“That’s a giraffe!” Sam says. “Good giraffe.”

“Yes. Giraffe,” Cas says. “Nice giraffe.”

“You guys can’t baby-talk to save your lives,” Dean says.

“What? Let’s see you try,” Sam grins. “What sound do giraffes make? Do they make sounds?”

Dean hasn’t done real babytalk since he was six years old. When Sam would gurgle and babble up at him, reaching his hands up to curl around Dean’s. “I ain’t participating in this baby talk,” Dean says. “I’m gonna talk to her in proper English. Get her off on the right foot.”

“I’ve been speaking to her in Enochian. Sometimes I forget I should teach her human tongue,” Cas says. “ Fun giraffe? Is this a fun giraffe?”

“Crinkle the ears,” Sam says. “They make a sound.”

There’s a tear in the stained oilcloth at the window Dean should fix. He could probably just duct tape it. The table and single chair that came with the cabin both wobble which might be dangerous if Cas is sitting there with a baby. He should have a rocking chair, with a quilt. A crib. A bassinet and a diaper changing table. They’re gonna have to be here for a while, because Cas just needs so many things. 

“What’s the closest town?” Dean asks the window. “Eureka? We’re kind of far from the 101, though.”

“Ferndale isn’t too far. That’s where I get formula.”

Dean bites back a comment about Cas buying groceries. Of course Cas buys groceries these days; it’s just that the thought of him pushing a cart and wandering aisles disturbs Dean a little.

“I’m gonna get you some stuff,” Dean says. “I gotta borrow your truck.”

“Oh.” Cas frowns. “Well, we’ll come with you. I just put her in the bassinet and put the blanket over here when we had to go to town.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, Cas. You stay here. You don’t leave the house. I’m going. Sam, keep them safe,” Dean says, and grabs the keys off the table.

The road twists through woods and foothills. It’s fairly isolated out here, a few farms, one abandoned house. Dean doubts even any of the humans out here know of their new neighbors. The woods look like prime wendigo territory, though, and the few scattered churches make him nervous. 

Ferndale is surreal. Dean walks down quaint little streets lined with honest-to-god Victorian houses. It’s like he’s in a Jane Austen novel or something. Like some hot dude is about to pull up and invite him for a buggy ride. He wishes the whole town was possessed or something, and has to sit in the ridiculous gazebo in the town green just to get his bearings. There’s one grocery store, too many churches, and not a single Walmart or Goodwill or illegal dumping ground to be found. He isn’t sure how good the Lutherans are with charity. The only home goods store is some weird Victorian-styled hippie place and it’s too expensive, and the rugs are done up in designs that resemble the one Castiel has. All geometric and floral, warm reds and oranges.

Cas must like this town. Cas should get a baby stroller - a fancy one, a real pram - to wander these quiet streets. Take a break on an antique bench beneath a blooming Japanese maple. Get a cup of tea at the bakery, too. Cas seems to like tea. Maybe no croissants, not yet.

Even Cas’s truck looks too beaten around the pristine vintage Fords. Dean’s glad he didn’t bring the Impala, her lines too brutish for these streets.

Eureka is better. There’s tweakers in front of the motels and a Goodwill. Dean buys formula and extra blankets - both for the baby and for Cas - at the Wal-Mart. Then he buys a rattling butterfly toy on the way out. Goodwill is perfect. Dean finds a rocking chair only missing two slats in the back. The crib is dirty, but it can be disassembled and cleaned easily. He gets a sippy cup and a few coffee mugs. Plates and forks. Then he finds a denim fleece-lined jacket that looks.

Well. Like just the thing Cas needs.

Cas doesn’t have any decent clothes. He’s still got his same suit and ugly coat, got the sweater and sweatpants the day they bought the mattress. Before Dean went and left him alone for a month. When Dean was thinking Cas was just gonna stuff himself off in a safe house and disappear again. And Cas can’t even go out buying new things because angels are looking for him, because he has a fucking Nephilim baby. Cas shouldn’t even be going out to buy formula, much less a decent coat. 

The jacket is forty bucks but he buys it anyways. He gets a pair of cargo pants because he isn’t sure how to find jeans that will fit Cas right and Cas seems to prefer the baggier clothes. Then there’s a flannel shirt that Dean has a crisis over because it looks too much like something he or Sam would wear. So he buys a soft T-shirt instead, the same grey as Cas’s sweater, with an actual V-neck. And a black hoodie, so Cas can be cozy, and a child-sized parka with leopard print, because leopard print is pretty cool and it’s big enough for her to grow into it. There’s lots of kids books, too. Maybe Nephilim are super smart and born with angelic knowledge. Maybe they’re not. But there’s cute stories about ducks and ponies and bunnies. 

When Dean was a kid there was this book he had about a horse that got lost. The horse wandered through the desert. The horse got hungry and sad and Dean stumbled over the words when he read it to Sammy. But it was okay in the end, and Dean had to turn off the flashlight soon after because John was coming back to the car. 

Dean reads every single book before he puts it in his cart. Nothing with baby animals going hungry, or getting lost. No conflict in general. So he only ends up with three, and two of them are the kind of books with scraps of cloth imitating animal fur for the kids to touch. 

It’s dark by the time Dean makes it back to the house. He had to make another trip to Wal-Mart to get a tarp to tie over the flatbed, just to make sure nothing blew away.

Back in Ferndale he’d stopped at the liquor store out of pure reflex. He was just - driving down long twisty roads through the woods. Like he’s been a thousand times before. And he knew he wouldn’t be back in town tonight, so he bought a fifth. And a six-pack. 

Dean parks the car and hears the liquid slosh and his stomach turns inside out. That bitter, metallic taste starts at the back of his throat. The twinge of the headache.

Dean can’t drink. But if he doesn’t drink then he’ll be irritable, and then he won’t be there. With Cas and the baby and Sam. He agonizes about it for four entire minutes before Sam gets fed up with his idling outside and comes to see what’s wrong. 

“Waiting for someone to come and help me unload all this shit,” Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes at him. 

It’s Sam who finds the bag of booze. Sam who grabs three beers to take inside and leaves the rest of it in the car. There’s a lot of work to do, but it’s dark, so once Dean brings in the blankets and the rocking chair they’re good enough to go. Sam pops the beers while Cas heats up the baby’s bottle, and Dean drinks his too fast while his fingers twitch. The new blankets will all have to be treated with some witchy powdered soap Rowena gave them before they can touch the baby, though, so he sets it aside while he mixes it up in the kettle.

“Save it for tomorrow,” Cas says. “You’re tired. Come here.” 

Dean needs to get a ton of hot water and it takes forever in this cabin. 

But Cas is there in his brand new rocking chair with the baby.

“Try holding her,” Cas says. “Here.”

And suddenly Dean’s arms are full of something squishy and warm and too bright to look at. Cas hands him the bottle and directs his hand and then smiles. One of those rare soft ones that seems accidental.

Dean goes to bed with Cas again. It was either that or go back to the truck and drink once Sam fell asleep.

He doesn't touch him. Sam is snoring and Cas is making weird sniffs in his sleep, and he waits until they even out before tiptoeing in. He crawls on the mattress carefully and then curls up like some pathetic dog, staring at the space in the darkness where Cas is.

Then the baby starts crying. 

It's so thin and high pitched, half the sound in frequencies Dean can't hear. But it's loud, somehow, loud in a way that rings Dean's ears. 

Cas is awake instantly. He’s fumbling and sleepy and doesn't notice Dean, just picks up the baby and starts rocking her, back and forth, bouncing her on his hip.

The cries quiet down, fading to off reverberations Dean feels more than he hears.

Cas sings. His voice is scratchy and rough and unbalanced. 

“Just the two of us,” Cas sings. “We can ma-hake it if we try. Just the two - two of us, you and me. No, you and I.” 

That seems to be all the words he knows. Cas is too out of it to care or do more than sing those few bars. He can’t carry a tune at all but it’s better than anything Dean can do. Cas turns, spinning the baby around a little bit, and sees Dean. Doesn’t comment, doesn’t say hi, just sees Dean and acts like that’s where he expected to find him.

“Building castles in the sky,” Dean sings. He hates his voice, but Cas grins, rocks the baby in his arms.

When the baby falls back asleep and Cas climbs back into bed, Dean stretches for him. Pulls him in and kisses his stubble, kisses his cheek.

“What truths do you have for me tonight, Dean?”

Dean thinks about it.

“I don’t know. I’m scared. Kind of pissed at you. You shoulda told us you ran out of formula. You shouldn’t have had to leave this house.”

“It was fine.”

“Might not be next time.”

“I’m going back to sleep.”

“That’s kind of my whole point. You’re sleeping now and it scares me.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re gonna have to eat soon. And you’re gonna have nothing but baby formula.” 

“Go to sleep,” Cas says, and kisses him.

 

 

Cas seems baffled by the full extent of everything Dean bought. He wears the new jacket, at least, sticking his hands in his pockets while he frowns at the crib.

“Your hippie dippie little seaweed pile won’t work once she’s more human shaped,” Dean says. “Come on. Help me clean this.” 

They have to work on a fire outside to boil enough water. For the crib, for the blankets, even for the baby clothes. Rowena’s soap smells like lilac and lemongrass and something rotten, but it’s supposed to treat everything without Cas having to stitch sigils.

“You didn’t have to get so much stuff,” Cas says. “The rocking chair is definitely overdoing it.” 

“Yeah, I did. And you liked the rocking chair. You needed a place to sit. And you know what? I’m gonna go and get you a proper cushion and more groceries, because Sam and I are gonna starve to death out here,” he says, and throws the blankets in the bubbling kettle.

Sam brings a fresh bucket from the well and then scurries away to get more. Sam wants to keep a ten foot pole between himself and cleaning at all times. He’s got a weird frown on his face, like he’s gonna have something to whine about later today. There’s a lot of cleaning to do, at least. So Sam is gonna have to wait. 

Cas balances the baby on his hip thoughtfully. “I still have some dried beans, canned goods. I did buy a few things for you two.”

“Sam eats like a goddamn bird. Double his bodyweight.” 

“Give me the next bucket of water, and I’ll start soaking the beans.”

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’m gonna go to the store, and I’ll have to get you another ice chest or something. More waters. This well thing is bullshit.” 

“That would be nice,” Cas allows, and goes inside the cabin. Dean cleans while the sun burns through the fog, while sweat starts to run down his back. He uses vamp stakes to set up drying lines. Maybe he can find a proper washing board for Cas in that weird Victorian town. Buy a generator, too, so that Cas doesn’t have to idle his truck to charge his phone. Maybe Dean will even find out how to fix the water lines out here. When the baby starts using the diapers, Cas is gonna need it. 

 

Sam waits until after they’ve had dinner and Cas is putting the baby to bed. He’s whispering, one eye on the closed bedroom door. 

“What are you doing, Dean?”

“What are you talking about?”

Sam gestures to the pile of baby books still open on the floor. “You’re like, nesting here.”

“Nesting?”

“I know. I know we kind of left Cas in the lurch, but he’s okay. This is a Nephilim, Dean. It’s not a baby. You’re, like, throwing Cas a freakin’ baby shower here.”

“So? You just said it. We left him in the lurch. With nothing.”

“Baby books, Dean.”

“Yeah? Or would you rather I just let Cas read her the Bible or whatever? Maybe we should let Rowena choose the baby books.”

“No, it’s not that - “

“It’s not a monster, Sam!”

“I’m not saying it is!” Sam winces when his voice raises. “Look, I think - I want this kid to have a normal life too, right? But it is what it is. She’s gonna be on the run from angels her entire life. Hell, we should be letting Rowena choose the books. Because the kid is going to have to deal with this, like it or not. She’s - I hate to say it, but she’s cursed. And we have no idea what’s going to happen.”

“So we’ll deal with that as it happens. But until then, she’s a baby. She’s not cursed. And you don’t know shit about babies.”

“Oh, yeah. And you’re some kind of baby expert all of a sudden.”

“I had plenty of experience,” Dean says, and that’s not one of those things he’s supposed to say to Sam but there it is. 

Sam doesn’t remember those first few months. Sam doesn’t remember when Dean tried to change his diaper but he was only five years old and ended up getting poop everywhere, and Dad hadn’t even noticed the smell. Dad just unlocked the car after four hours and got in and sat there staring at the wheel. And Dean was five and exhausted but he’d done it, he’d put the diaper on right and Sammy was clean and gurgling and he’d waited and waited until Dad looked into the rearview mirror. Said, “Hi, Sammy.” And, “Good job, Dean.”

He’d been trying, then. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says now, sounding kind of broken and awkward. “I’m sorry. I just - I don’t know what you’re doing here. Are you staying here, now?” He doesn’t sound like he’s complaining. He sounds like he’s just asking Dean what he’s doing, and he doesn’t say we. 

“Cas needs us. The baby needs us.”

“Yeah.” Sam sighs. “Cas is doing really good, you know? Never knew he had it in him.”

“I’ve spent millennia watching humans raise their children,” Cas says, opening the door. “And I’ve watched the process become more and more luxurious. It’s not difficult.”

Sam and Dean blink up at him. No way to know just how much Cas heard. 

That night, Dean sleeps on the pullout bed with Sam. Cas leaves his door open a crack in invitation. 

 

Sam finds a case over breakfast. Somehow he has a Wi-Fi signal out here, and he’s pretending to casually scroll while he eats leftover beans.

“That’s not our thing,” Dean says.

“I got the details of the coroner’s report. They were all missing their livers, surrounded by empty bottles of one specific microbrewery. I mean. Look, he’s got a label on his face. They’re saying it might have been an ex-employee, but - ”

“Sounds like Siduri is upset about something,” Cas says. “Perhaps because they took her name in vain and then sold out to a major corporation?”

“Budweiser sponsors Seaworld. That’s pretty evil. Sounds like it might piss off a beer goddess.”

“That’s decomposition - that’s animals scavenging. They were found in the woods.”

“Dumped in the woods. Dean. This is a case.” 

“We’ve got a case right here. Nephilim. ”

“We got a case out there.” 

“And we’ve been out there for a month already, Sam! We’ve been out there our whole damn lives and now we’re doing this!”

“Dean,” says Sam, and he does that little jerk of the head that means outside. Then he’s getting up and going outside, which means he’s running off with the last word, and Dean has nothing to do but follow him.

“What the hell, Sam?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“It was weird enough with Claire, all right? But this - Jesus, Dean. I’m watching you - and you’re setting yourself up for. I don’t know. Heartbreak.”

“What - Claire?”

“You were all ready to play Mommy and Daddy with Cas. And now you want to raise a child with him? Jesus, Dean. I hold my tongue. I always fucking hold my tongue. But do you really think it’s a good idea to play house with the guy - and I’m sorry, but. I don’t wanna to be here for the inevitable fallout. For your drama queen shit. Dean. You need to either - “

“Cas knows.”

“What?”

“Jesus.” Dean wipes his hand with his face. Walks three steps away into a clump of seagrass and then turns around, “We’ve been - we’ve been - for a while. Since - I don’t know, it’s kind of been an on and off thing for a long time. But then - and, yeah. And then there was that whole deal with - with Crowley and - “

“Oh my god.”

“But - you know, we - Cas and me, we’re - “

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

“Yeah.”

“Wait. Crowley - “

“I was a demon, Sam!”

“You banged Crowley?” 

“Demon! And you - “ Dean points rather than saying anything. Ruby was years ago.

“You banged Crowley!” Sam is wheezing, falling to his knees. “You know what? I’m just gonna call Mom. She can be my backup. All she freakin’ does is run around on hunts these days. Fancy beer and Sumerian goddesses? She’ll love it. You - you and Cas - oh my god. Have I been getting in the way of you and Cas getting your freak on?”

“Sam!” 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Sam is covering his mouth with his hand. “Gimme the keys. I’m just - I’m gonna go. You and Cas do your thing, all right? Give me the keys. Shut up. Just give me the keys.”

So Dean gives him the keys. 

Sam walks off, muttering to himself. He starts the Impala and folds his hands over the wheel and takes great gasping breaths that sound like laughs. “I’m happy for you!” he shouts, and then - he’s off. 

Dean stands in a clump of seagrass all by himself and just breathes. Just for a minute.

Inside the cabin Cas is cross legged on the rug in front of the stove while the formula heats up. He’s talking in Enochian to the baby, waving the toy around, and Dean’s heart is overstuffed, creeping up his chest to spill over. 

“How do you even know how you’re feeding her enough?” 

Cas shrugs. He keeps saying the same word, so Dean’s learning how to say giraffe in Enochian. “I just make an educated guess.”

 

Sam is gone for four days and Cas doesn’t even seem worried about it. Somehow Cas has settled into some kind of zen routine. Wake up, rock the baby, feed the baby, play with the baby, feed the baby again. Put the baby down for a nap. Go to bed with Dean and ignore the blue light of the phone while Dean wonders what to text Sam.

It’s not like Sam knows shit about babies, but he should still be here for this. 

Dean’s hands are simultaneously too big and too small to do anything here. But he raised Sam. He did okay with that. Except Sam is thirty-five years old now and Dean - 

Dean’s gonna be forty. Older than John was when Mom died.

The guy right next to him is about six and half billion years old. So Dean can put his phone down. Stop worrying. Turn over and touch something truly ancient. 

“You’re going to be so good at this,” Dean tells him during breakfast. The baby’s breakfast. There’s no real food left in the house and Sam won’t be back till tomorrow. He’s going to pick up groceries. Dean sent him a list. It’s just today. “The whole parent thing.”

Cas smirks a little, hefting the baby. “Birth and life are things older even than myself, Dean.”

“And you’ve been doing okay? No one - no one fucking with you here.”

“Of course not.”

“What about - ” Dean swallows. “When we were gone. When I wasn’t here. Five weeks.”

“I’ve already killed four angels, Dean,” Cas says.

Like it’s no big deal. Like it means absolutely nothing to him.

“They came for the Nephilim?”

“I did what needed to be done,” Cas says. For a moment, he looks like he’s about to drop the baby but then he looks up at Dean with a thin line for a mouth. “They were useful to me. The blood of a possessed vessel, combined with grace? That’s powerful magic.”

That sounds like cannibalism. That sounds like Cas stone-faced and tearing the wings off his brothers. That sounds like the typical kind of grim bullshit Cas just loves to throw himself into. 

“Go buy groceries,” Cas says, then. “We’ll be just fine without you.”

Four angels.

Outside, Dean can’t even see the blood. It’s just a cabin, a dark blocky shape against the grey-blue smears of the sea and sky. But he’s hungry, Sam took the Impala, and there's a fifth of whiskey in the truck.

“I found granola,” Cas calls, opening the door. “Sam must have left it from before. If I had known you would be staying so long…”

“Granola sounds good.”. 

It's dry and crunchy and doesn't taste like food. Cas watches Dean choke on sawdust and doesn't say, you left me for five weeks. Instead he says, “I do need to get ice. Why don’t you stay here? Watch the baby. I’m just going to Ferndale - I’ll pick you up some food.” 

Dean coughs up cardboard bits. “Oh. You wait till I after I start eating? And you aren’t going anywhere - they’re looking for you too, and - “

“Warded.” Cas pats his ribcage. “Dean. I need to get out of this cabin. I have been cooped up here for weeks. I’ll be back soon,” and there he goes. Out into the wide world. He just drops the baby on Dean’s lap and starts up the truck and he’s probably already seen the fucking booze. 

Of course, as soon as he’s gone, the baby starts to cry.

Dean holds her in his trembling arms and thinks, fuck. 

So when Sam would cry, Dean would hug him and try to rock him around a bit. Stroke his hair. Kiss his cheeks and tickle him. The nephilim doesn't have any hair or cheeks and Dean can’t even look straight at it without being temporarily blinded. In the icebox is some of Cas’s blood, a bit of formula already mixed. He prepares a bottle but he doesn’t remember how warm it should be or if it even fucking matters for a burning energy sphere. Cas showed him how to aim it, at least, but for all he knows he’s holding the baby upside-down. She sobs and sobs, and Dean almost cries along with her. 

He can rock her back and forth. Start a rhythm. No one’s around to hear him warble like a strangled duck, but the only song that comes to his mind at the moment is fucking Warrant. 

“You’re my... cherry pie? Little baby girl, sweet suprise. Yeah? You like that. Good - good baby,” and shit, he’s even worse than Sam and Cas. 

The sound of her cries sounds like a star being split apart, something nuclear and furious and completely beyond Dean’s comprehension. He gives her a blanket, the giraffe, the shiny things he’s bought her. Frenetic in the kitchen, he ransacks the cupboards for anything, but all he finds is the ancient shotgun and the old canisters of salt - and yeah, they didn’t leave Cas enough things. Cas didn’t leave anything for Dean. This is Cas’s revenge, abandoning him with the nephilim in some leaky fucking cabin in the middle of nowhere.

So Dean holds the baby very closely and sits down on the couch. Puts his feet up on it. Totally fails at not crying. It’s just him and the baby.

She quiets down. 

The faint outline of a hand is visible, just outside the edge of her radiance. Tiny fingers clutching for something. 

Dean holds out his finger. Waits for her to take it. Then she tugs, bringing his hand into the gom jabbar. Dean flinches on instinct, but only the wards tingle across his skin when he reaches into the inferno and feels the shape of her hand. It’s too warm and smooth to be human, but it’s something to hold on to. 

 

Cas brings in sandy feet and multiple paper bags. The greasy one he tosses at Dean. “One burger, with bacon. And fries. And I found your booze.” 

Melted cheese clings to the paper bag. Dean tries to sit up but the baby is still on top of his chest. He settles for the fries for now, something that won’t make a mess. There’s no ketchup, but they’re salty enough. “That was - I’m sorry, Cas.“

“Why?”

Dean points at the glowing thing on his chest. “I’m not gonna drink around a baby. I’m not gonna do that to her.” 

Cas frowns at Dean. Shit, but Cas can see it. There’s no way Cas doesn’t know what happens when you get drunk around your kids. 

“Do you want me to dump it out?”

“Um. I don’t know?”

Liquid sloshes inside the bag. Cas considers, tucks it up on top of a dusty shelf. “Eat your food, Dean. You look tired.”

“She was crying practically the whole time,” Dean says. 

“You could’ve taken her down to the beach.” Cas scoops her up off his chest, letting Dean sit up and actually get in on his burger. “I often take her there when she’s upset. We’re warded for a mile in each direction.”

“Just a mile?”

“Just a mile. It’s…” Cas says, and looks down at the baby. “I’m sure you’ve noticed I’m not what I used to be.”

“Do you even know what’s going on with you, Cas?” 

“To borrow a colloquialism, I suppose I’m sleeping with the fishes now.”

“Sleeping with - “ Dean blinks up at him. “Did you just call me a fish?”

Cas grins. “Fish are elegant creatures that keep the entire ocean in balance. Let’s go the beach.”

It’s not really a beach so much as it is a rocky cliff to scramble down. Cas is carrying the baby and there’s no way he can make it down with her - 

But Cas only opens his arms, and throws her off the cliff. 

There’s a hissing sound, the glowing orb spinning suspended in the air. Small sweeps of flame fly up and arc out, resolving themselves into a series of wheels and then expanding - 

She’s got fucking wings. All glowy and gorgeous. They’re still fragile and fluffy, but they look healthy. Healthier than Castiel’s, at least.

“She loves the sea,” Cas says, and reaches up a hand to pull Dean down the path. They hop from rock to rock, hike down a sandy path, until they reach a scrap of rocks strewn with driftwood and dead seaweed. Flies are gathering over the rotting seaweed but Cas just sits down on a long log, pats the space next to him. “Look at her.”

She’s really going for it. The nephilim dances over the sea, bounding over waves. Sometimes she dips beneath the sea and then comes up blazing again, droplets flying. She scrapes the surface with one wing, flips around to whisk them with water, and then scurries off across the cresting waves again. 

Cas is chuckling, hands on his knees. There’s something like regret in his eyes and Dean wonders if this is something Cas did when he was younger, when the world was new and energy was not something constrained but something that flew wild through the air. 

“We used to go down,” Cas says. “To the bottom of the sea and the mountain ranges there. I wish I could take her now.” 

Dean scoots closer to him. Today hasn’t been too cold, but a wind is picking up. He flips up the collar on Cas’s new denim jacket for him. Just to fend off the chill a little bit.

Across the sea, the nephilim dances against the setting sun. Cas wraps an arm behind Dean, leans on his shoulder. When the sun has finally set he whistles, and the baby comes hurtling back. Less bright, now. Settling gracefully in his arms, exhausted. 

“We should get her home,” Cas says, and Dean doesn’t say home is the bunker, or the Impala, or anywhere but wherever Cas might be. 

 

Sam is back in the morning with an extra car following him. Rowena comes out trilling and red, Mary subdued in green. Sam is a filthy liar who went mom-hunting. 

“And how is the wee bairn?” Rowena is all smiles and clutched spellbooks, and Dean isn’t even sure what the fuck bairn is supposed to mean. 

“Um. I bought diapers.” Mary stares at the bundle of joy and cosmic energy bouncing on the porch. “Is that - that’s the baby?”

“Is that Enochian magic?” Cas is frowning at the John Dee book in Rowena’s arms. “I can teach her all of that.”

“It’s a glossary of angel names,” Rowena says. “Now, when I was a little girl, we didn’t name them for the first few years. But I think this one will have better luck in life.” 

“She’ll tell me her name when she’s ready.”

“You could say thank you. I’ve brought you more of the warding soap, hex bags, and the complete Books of Moses. Don’t make that face at me, it’s good beginner magic.”

“Good lord,” Mary says. “Where do you even start with that thing?”

“It’s a Nephilim,” Cas says. “It’s not a human. But she’s still a baby, and - “

Sam is leaning against the Impala looking proud of himself and ignoring all of Dean’s pointed looks. While Cas bickers about child rearing with the two shining paragons of motherhood, Dean creeps over to him to help grab the groceries. Which really means giving him a thorough whispered lecture behind the raised trunk of the Impala.

“Oh, come on,” Sam says. “They’re the only moms I know. Not like I’m bringing Kelly back into this.”

That's true. Ever since Lucifer tried to kill her outside a Planned Parenthood, she's made her stance clear on exactly how much she wants to do with her rapist’s baby. “So you bring Rowena? Look who she raised!”

Sam just makes a face at him, like Dean can even talk about Crowley right now. Yeah. Right. “Dude, she’s like six hundred years old or something. And she’s pulled through, all right? She has just as much reason to worry about a Nephilim as we do. Notice I didn’t bring Crowley?”

“Where is he, anyways?”

“I wouldn’t let him anywhere near that kid. Besides, I think - I dunno. Maybe it’s good for Rowena? It’s not her baby. And Mom, well - she changed your diapers, right? So. I don’t know.”

Dean looks at Rowena armed with her magic and Mary with her pistol horribly concealed in the small of her back. “Rowena is going to use her, and Mom is going to shoot her.” 

“No, they’re not. Look. You were right, Dean. We shouldn’t have left Cas alone. This is a big deal - we don’t know even what the deal entirely is - and there’s things out there what really, really want this kid. So I brought in the cavalry, all right? We all got one thing in common, at least.” 

“Great. Okay. So what, are they staying here now?”

“No! God no. Rowena’s got a lead on Lucifer, anyways. We’re just gonna hang around for a day or two. Is that cool?”

For a moment, all Dean can think about is the smiling lady with bouncy red hair who was so helpful and - 

Fuck.

Of course she’s getting along with Mary. Even Mary can’t deny the woman’s a freaking treasure trove of knowledge. Dean isn’t sure if they’re actually friends or just mutually taking advantage of each other. Keeping each other in the tool box. So it’s not like Dean can just throw out one or the other. 

Cas and Rowena are debating chalk drawings on the porch while the baby bounces between them. Mary sits awkwardly on her knees, trying to peek at their spellwork.

“Takes a goddamn village, don’t it?” 

Sam claps Dean on the shoulder. “That’s right. And we aren’t leaving you and Cas to figure this out alone.” 

Yeah, that’s right. It's him and Cas now; it has to be. Every time he thinks pushing Cas away is the right thing to do it ends in broken glass and bloody knuckles and all that other traumatic bullshit. 

Not that they can do this alone. Dean is balls-deep in Daddy issues and the thought of actually having to discipline a child scares the shit out of him in private places he can't put words to. 

But then again, Sam turned out all right. 

On the porch, Mary is now gingerly cradling the baby while Rowena wiggles the giraffe toy in her face. Cas is bemused and shaking his head. He looks up to Dean, darting a look over at the women with a roll of his eyes that says everything and Dean thinks he loves Cas. That he can make this little cabin a home. That it's going to be okay. 

So he goes up to Cas. Puts a hand on his shoulder and brings him in. 

“You know,” he says. “Might be nice to have some babysitters around. Give us some time to - you know.”

“Yes,” Cas says, and kisses him on the mouth, while the sun still shines. Right in front of everybody.

Dean feels it. Dean feels it so much and he doesn’t want to choke it back down. So when he breaks away, he turns to Rowena and Mary.

“All right, guys. Gimme her. C’mere, kiddo.” 

She tickles his fingers, glows up at him. 

“Hi,” Dean says. 

She gurgles, and it almost sounds human.


End file.
